Synchronicity
by Ashley A
Summary: Lancelot contemplates his future. Is it one he wants to see?


Author's note:

Lancelot comtemplates his future.  Is it one he wants to see?

Rated PG

Spoilers: None, really.

Timeline:  Approximately one year before the main action of King Arthur the film.

Feedback is a must!

Disclaimer:  Yes, I own Clive Owen and Ioan Gruffudd.  Wait, damn.  That's not true!  Oh well.  I own nothing- no copyright infringement ever intended.  
Enjoy!

            The bang created by the heavy iron helmet hitting the wood of the table echoes through the empty hall.

            The exhausted young knight seats himself at a vacant chair, and props his legs on the table, dirty booted feet shedding snow and mud onto the glistening surface.

            He stares at his helmet, the crest still holding on to the blood it was drenched in earlier, and blinks his eyes rapidly, yearning to repel the image.  He knows he cannot, no matter how desperately he wishes to.

            He is skilled in the art of war, and he hates himself for it.  He hates that it is the only thing he has been trained to do, and he hates that his profession is one of death dealing and pain.  The worst thing is, he excells at it.

            Melting snow and ice drip off the dark curls that rest on his neck, and he wipes a hand over them absently, succeeding in only turning the snow into dirty slush from the grime on his hands.

            One more year.  One more year, and he is free to return home.  Free to see his family, and free to make his own way, to bury his weapons and never pick up a sword again if he so chooses.

            But what will he do?  Farming?  He laughs out loud at the thought.  Freemasonry?  Blacksmithing?  Horsemaster?  Ne'er do well?

            He sighs.  He's that already.

            He stands quickly, suddenly extremely eager to shed his heavy armor, and remove the stinking, sweltering clothing he's been wearing for the past two weeks.  He doesn't want to think of the amount of dirt on his body.  Perhaps a visit to the baths is in order.  Depending upon which handmaiden is there…

            A sly grin crosses his handsome features, and he begins to unclasp the breastplate he wears from his shoulders.

            _Clang!_  It hits the table.

            His short, grey cloak is next, followed by the wrist and shin guards.

            At last he stands free, feeling light as a feather in his leather trousers and rough linen shirt.  He spreads his arms wide, his back cracking as he relishes the lack of rusty metal surrounding his body, weighing down his soul as much as his physical self.

            "Lovely," he says outloud, noticing the wine service set up in the corner.  No doubt for the Lord of this keep, but he doubts the Lord will mind too much if he imbibes.

            Striding quickly across the room, he skirts the hefty round table that is the only ornament present, and grabs up a goblet, hastily pouring a serving of the dark red wine that is produced locally here in this godforsaken area of Britain.

            He drinks almost all of it down before noticing how fast he going.

            Not wanting to become drunk just yet, he stops, finishing the goblet at a more reasonable pace, and sets the cup back on the service.  Hopefully someone will notice it; gods forbid Arthur should have to drink out of a used cup.

            His mood suddenly sour, the knight returns to his seat at the table.  One out of twenty loyal Sarmatian knights left.  Originally one out of a hundred.

            Too many lost in stupid border skirmishes.  Too many lost to psychotic Pict raiders.  And too many lost for the glory of Rome.

            "Bah!" he shouts, picking up his abandoned helmet, and flinging it across the hall, he narrowly misses the head of the man who has just opened the large door.

            "If you had wanted to fight me, Lancelot, you could have just asked," the dark haired man states solemnly, and shuts the door behind him.

            "Arthur.  I am sorry; I did not see you there.  Forgive me," Lancelot apologizes, bowing his head slightly in deference to the other man's position of power.

            Arthur stoops to retrieve his friend's thrown helmet, and examines it for any damage. 

            "It seems unharmed," he states, stepping down the stairs that lead to the table.  He sets it down next to Lancelot's discarded armor, and pulls out the chair next to him.

            Seating himself, Arthur regards his oldest and dearest friend in the world with a curious glance.

            "What troubles you, my friend?  I haven't seen you this solitary in quite some time.  Are you restless?  Or is it something else?"

            Lancelot eyes Arthur, not sure what exactly to tell him.  He would die for this man, he would do anything for him, but when it comes to talking…that's not something given so freely.

            "I am fine, Arthur, truly.  I just…" he hesitates, trailing off.  He fingers the tassel hanging from his shirt collar.  Arthur waits, infinitely patient.  Lancelot realizes that his ire is building again, and it's directed at his old friend.  His old friend who sits there passively, looking for all the world like he hasn't a care.

            Lancelot knows that's not close to the truth.  He wouldn't take all the gold in Rome to be in Arthur's position.  But he is angry nonetheless.

            "How can you be so calm?" he sighs finally.  "Our term of service is coming to a close, and I have no idea where I am to go from here.  What am I good for?  What service can I provide to my home, my family, to a wife, that other men don't already provide?  I have been gone so long, and done so many things that I cannot bear to speak of.  I don't know what to do."

            A smile flits across Arthur's weatherbeaten and stubbled face, but he hastily hides it, not wanting to hurt his friend more than he is already hurting.

            "I do not understand why this troubles you, Lancelot.  You are extraordinarily valuable.  Do you not see that?  You could do anything you chose to. Any woman, any family would be lucky to have you," Arthur states.  Although he makes it sound as though he is puzzled as to why Lancelot would have these feelings, he's no fool.

            He has the same doubts and fears every morning when he wakes, and every evening when he goes to bed.  He cannot show this face to his men, however, for to appear weak in front of soldiers who depend upon you to lead to them to glory would be a folly he would never undertake.

            A little voice inside pipes up, one that rarely makes an appearance anymore.  Arthur jerks slightly at the words.

            _Go on, tell him you're afraid as well.  Tell him, tell someone.  _

He squashes it down, back into the recesses of his mind, where memories that will never see the light of day live.  He briefly thinks of his mother, and then slams that door shut.

            "Of course you do not understand, Arthur.  You have your path spread out before you.  You know exactly where you are going and what you are doing the minute this post is finished.  Some of us don't have that luxury," Lancelot spits, and stands.  He begins to pace the room, heedless that he is trailing more melting snow behind him.

            "Rome awaits.  Your father's family awaits you there.  You have a home, a calling, perhaps a seat in the Senate, or a future as a retired old war hero, giving advice to young recruits?  Maybe you will be stationed there in the city, to welcome new blood to the fold.  For the Glory of the Empire," he says bitterly, turning to lay heavy eyes on his friend.  "I have been a soldier my whole life.  But not a soldier as you have been.  You are Roman.  You have a place to go.  I have been gone from Sarmatia for so long, I don't know what to expect when I return there.  Should I stay here?  Should I travel?  Or should do as Bors has done, and breed with a local woman, and produce a large number of bastard children who will have the same bleak future as their father?"

            Arthur stands as well, stepping up to other man, who has begun to tremble from the raw emotion that has come pouring out unexpectedly.  He puts a gentle hand on Lancelot's shoulder.

            "You are wrong, Lancelot.  I do not have everything clearly mapped out.  True, my father's family does have a place for me, but I too have been here for almost as long as I can remember.  I am Roman by birth, but not by nurture.  I have not seen the streets of the City for so long, that they could be dust by now, and I would not know the difference.  I am as lost as you feel.  Being a soldier, a leader, takes all of my willpower and dedication.  I have no time or energy to plan for anything else.  What will I do?  I haven't considered it much.  For if I do, and I get my hopes up, what happens if I fall in battle, or lose the wrong fight?  What if I am captured, or taken by some evil Pict tribe and executed?  I cannot spare the time for the future, because I am never sure if I will have one."

            Lancelot sways suddenly, and Arthur guides him to his seat.

            "You need to rest, my friend," he says softly, crouching down to meet the other man's eyes.  "I believe we have had enough conversation for one evening."

            "I…did not know you had these doubts, Arthur.  I am sorry," Lancelot replies, ashamed of his outburst.  The fire has gone out of him, and his limbs feel heavy and useless, his body unwilling to cooperate with his mind.  The wine he had drunk earlier sits burning in his stomach.

            "Now you do, and we understand each other better," the other says kindly.  "Our hearts are in synch.  The reason I share this with you, and only you, is because for us to have faith in one another, for us to fight side by side and live, we must believe in each other.  I believe in you, Lancelot.  Can you say the same for me?"

            The battle weary and bone tired knight meets the eyes of his commander, and nods once.  The corner of Arthur's mouth crooks upward in a half smile, and he unbends his knees, his spine popping loudly in the quiet room.  He laughs, and Lancelot snorts an ungainly sound through his nose.

            "Time all good soldiers were abed, aye?" he says, shaking the last of the melted snow from his curly hair.  Arthur nods, clapping him on the shoulder as he stands.

            "Wiser words were never spoken.  Although perhaps a visit to the baths…" he cocks his head to the side, stroking his chin.  "I could use a shave."

            "You could use a strong perfume," Lancelot says, picking up his helmet and discarded armor, tucking them under his arm. 

            "I believe, sir, that is your own fine odor you are smelling," Arthur replies, striding toward the large oak door at the end of the room.  He bounds up the steps two at a time, some of his buoyancy returned.  Opening the door, he waits for Lancelot to meet him there.

            "Do not be troubled, my true friend," he says, facing the younger man.  "Things have a way of coming to pass, whether we wish them to or not."

            "Yes.  And unfortunately, that is what bothers me," the knight answers.  Arthur nods his head in agreeance.

            "We shall see, Lancelot.  Gods willing, we shall be here to see."

            The two men quit the room, and let the large door fall shut behind them, Lancelot ignoring his worries, shuttered for the night, left in his place at the round table.

            Arthur disregards his as well, but carries them with him, hidden deep within, as they are never too far from his thoughts.

            One a simple knight, one a leader of soldiers.

            Both human men.

            The sounds of the keep echo around them, gradually dragging their contemplative states back to the present, and the duty the coming days will bring them.

            They both think on the same thing.

            _Please let me be here to see it._


End file.
